The Flames
by Nins
Summary: Two years after a chandelier crash and the mysterious loss of a beautiful starlet, the dwindling Paris opera house is being left in peace. But a Phantom long lost refuses to let the flames die down... if only someone helped keep it alight. EM
1. Chapter 1

Hi all. :D Though I've written POTO fanfiction before, I left my old account and started anew about a year later. So yeah, enjoy. As of now I have a short first chapter but it'll be pretty longer in the next few. Have fun.

**Disclaimer: **A B C D E F G, Phantom does not belong to me.

* * *

**The Flames**

Jeremie scowled as he trudged down the alleyway, the horizon clouded in fog and the ground blanketed in puddles. It had been an intensely busy day, and he couldn't wait to get all his work done before retiring at the city church's homeless shelter and abusing their provisions. Layer upon layer of old threadbare coats kept his short grubby little body warm in these days creeping before winter, but his face was frozen as the air, drained of color and coated in dirt and grit. He clenched his fists hidden by stolen sleeves that were too long, which, he realized, proved to be extremely helpful.

Only a few people were left strolling about at this hour, mostly stumbling sick drunks and street children with nowhere better to go. Two whores stood shivering in their torn up revealing dresses, still desperate to earn a little more money.

Dimness fell through the buildings as the clouds covered the moon, worsening Jeremie's sight. He needed _light _for his work to be fast, to find what he had to find. But fate simply decided to act against his favor once again. Frustrated, he rubbed his rough old sleeves against his face, granting it temporary warmth, then wiping it against his dripping nose. He smelled disgusting. Folded, crumpled wads of money shifted in his pockets, hitting his side as he walked every now and then. A comforting reminder of what he would be swimming in once he grew older, or at least he hoped.

Somewhere, faintly, he could see through Paris' abundant fog – a figure. It sat on the side of the street, a strange blackish mass. It didn't puzzle him much; he figured it was either the bumbling street police or some dignified politician secretly searching late at night for a prostitute. But in his twelve years spent living in the world, he had never seen a citizen as peculiar looking as this one.

As he made his way closer to the stranger, he could make out different features, blurry and strange but definitely noticeable against the plain others still around him. He was tall, almost towering (it was so obvious he could tell even as he sat there), with broad shoulders and a deep black coat that nearly swallowed him in it. He wore a hat, almost a little too big that it tipped down forwards and covered his face. Jeremie strained his eyes to make something out of the swirled shadows, to see something remotely human, but he failed. Soon he was standing right beside the sitting figure, Jeremie frowning and primitively scratching his backside.

"Jeremie La Barré?" it spoke, with a voice deep and rumbling.

"Yeah, me. Who the fuck are you?" Jeremie answered, grumpily. He didn't need another request to finish.

"I hear you are the best."

"I know the sewers like no one else," he answered cockily, crossing his arms. "The mains, the smallers, the shortcuts."

"I find that fantastic."

"Yeah, well, it's mostly getting' through the shit and tryin' to hear what the hell people are sayin' up there." He was starting to grow impatient. What was this, an interrogation? He was about to step to the side and continue his walk, but the tall dark man pushed him back into place with a single hand. Angrily, Jeremie was about to shout something at him, but the stranger spoke first.

"I have a job for you. Quite like your usual work, I am sure. 'Getting through shit'."

Jeremie closed his mouth, and glared at him in hostility. "I got enough t'do today. One long line of customers. I dun need no more screwin' round to find your lost pocket watch or shit."

"I promise it will earn you a million more coats to pile on top of yourself."

Jeremie raised an eyebrow. "How much?"

"One thousand francs."

The boy's eyes bulged out of his sockets, his scowl disappearing as he allowed the number to whirl through his head. _One thousand? _That was more than the rest of the money he'd earned today put together.

"You fuckin' serious?"

"Your mother should have told you not to curse like a drunkard."

"She ain't tell me enough. Why the hell a fortune, mister? You lost a house in the sewers or shit?"

The figure shook what was supposedly its head. "Only something very important."

"Well, then," Jeremie said, less shocked. He was not willing to seem like a child in awe of a shiny piece of glass, not in front of _this_ freak. "I want my francs now, so I knows you ain't fuckin' wit me."

The figure nodded, and it slowly pulled out a thick sheaf of crisp bills from its deep black pocket. The sight made Jeremie forget the weak winter air around them. He'd already decided he would take this order, no matter how difficult.

"What ya need?"

"Search the sewers, try near the opera house. Look for a lasso, a music box, and a ring."

"_That _stuff? What the hell are you, a magician?"

"Possibly. Do you want those francs or not?" As soon as the boy fell silent, the shadow continued. "After that, go to the sewers directly under the opera. Listen. Listen for the workers or dancers. Tell me whatever they say. All the rumors, the stories."

"Rumors, mister? None them murder plots or passwords?"

"Rumors," it said, firmly. It held the money out a bit closer to Jeremie, who snatched it quickly and stuffed it into one of his many pockets. It was a deal. "How long will you take?"

"Unless it's knee-deep in shit, an hour." The shadowy stranger's request was now his priority. It stood in front of everything else.

"Adequate. If you accomplish it faster, I will add another half."

"You fuckin' serious?" Jeremie said again. He could no longer hide his amazement.

"Yes, I am. Now go to the sewers beneath the Opera House, near Rue d'Alembert," the figure slowly stood up from its perch on the side of the street, towering darkly over the boy. "I will be needing my belongings soon."

Without another word, Jeremie dashed off into the Paris fog, eager for the scent of newly earned francs and willing to endure the scent of waste for just that. The homeless shelter could wait another hour. _Lasso, music box, ring._

Silently, Erik watched him disappear, his filthy old coats flapping behind him with one thousand francs in one of their pockets. He did not care much for money – he couldn't go out in daylight to buy anything; at night he had no desire for the orgies at the brothels. He only used it to manipulate.

For a few moments Erik almost felt sorry for the boy, for the fact that as soon as he got what he needed he would have to throw the lasso around his neck and pull it forcibly, so that he wouldn't spread what he had heard or seen. But feeling sympathy was only for those who received plenty. For him, warm love was as thin and faint as the mist.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Another chapter. Nothing much to say about this one, except if you've come here solely for some senseless, fluffy romance... you're gonna have to wait until later chapters. I like taking these a tad slowly. Enjoy anyway.

* * *

The Paris Opera House was a striking building, hundreds of years old and gilded in gold and silver. It stood as the tallest among the banks and offices that surrounded it, in a wealthy spot of the city near Rue d'Alembert. It took pride in its ostentatious grandeur and remarkable presentation of operas, but most of all in its having the prettiest girls. One such performer was Mademoiselle Christine Daae.

When she first emerged to sing onstage, the public went wild and stuffed her dressing room with bouquets and pricey gifts. A hundred songs were written specifically for her voice, and her likeness was painted by numerous artists. Men cheered and clapped whenever she appeared, women swooned over her tabloid-sewn romances with various counts, dukes and princes. Her name was printed the largest on the opera house's librettos and posters, and her face the main money-collector for several weeks. The cobblestone on the street in front of the opera house was worn out from carriages and horses. Her voice echoed throughout the city, and Paris shined like never before.

* * *

"…Two more! A _hundred _more! We'll go on all damn night!" Danielle howled to the ceiling, her head on the stone floor of the basement and her legs propped up against a barrel. She gripped a brown bottle in her hand, its remaining contents spilling onto the floor as she waved it around in the air. Around her, the small group of dancers and singers screamed in laughter, most of them just as inebriated.

The basement had turned into a sort of lounge for those five performers – they'd rolled in some beer barrels from the kitchen and lit candles here and there for the evening.

"This job is a waste! The men who come to ogle at us are ugly and old. Reckon we'll do better with pimps?" Fifi giggled, grabbing the bottle and taking a long swig of what was left in it.

"_You _would, if you dumped Mister Street Sweep," Danielle answered. She was met with hooting and disorganized applause, and a slap from Fifi.

"You bunch are crazy," Meg laughed from her seat on the floor, her yellow hair being messily braided by another dancer. "Technical is tomorrow, you want to show up to Mademoiselle Carlotta drunk and all screwed by the curtain pullers?"

"Why, Maggie Eggs?" Brigitte slurred into her ear, her fingers tangled in the sorry plait she'd just created. "D'you just have fun with Philippe again?"

"That bastard deserves a good knife to the trousers!" Danielle spat drunkenly, hitting a fist against the floor. "Has me, then goes has Maggie Eggs? Bastard!" Everyone else howled, with Fifi falling and landing on top of Danielle's stomach. A barrel tipped over and crashed onto the floor. Brigitte collapsed as well, pulling Meg's head down with her.

"Philippe's kissed me once, that's it!" Meg chortled as she rolled off of Brigitte, her night dress partly covered in spilled beer. "He's gone off to make sweet love to everybody else in the opera house."

"Including your mother?" Fifi snorted. Meg gave her a quick, playful punch in the shoulder.

"Oh, what a hellhole this place has turned out to be," Danielle wheezed. She took an expensive cigar from another dancer's hand and sucked on it languidly. They'd gotten a whole box of them months ago from traveling Italian merchants, who were paid in special favors by the female performers of the opera house. "The night I turn twenty, I'll get my darling George to lead me out with all my clothes and things. We'll leave to England! To North America - whatever's farthest from here."

"You lucky whore," Brigitte said from her place on the stone floor, catching the cigar as Danielle carelessly dropped it. She placed it between her lips before coughing out a cloud of smoke. "I'm here till Papa decides to come back from the sea. You, Meg?"

She smiled sweetly, leaning against a still-standing barrel. "If you haven't remembered, my mother receives quite a salary here. And unless she suddenly decides to hit the streets and live pennilessly, I'll be her dancing monkey."

Fifi held back a laugh, with the expensive cigar being passed on to her. "What? No plans of running away? Haven't flirted with any dashing young outsiders? Are you really willing to just stick here and sing your tongue off?"

A nod from Meg, and a snort from Danielle. "Don't expect little Angel of Music here to go anywhere beyond the theatre. Everyone loves her! B'sides, ever since Pristine Christine ran off to pleasure her Raoul man all day, Firmin's been eyeing her the most."

Giggles from the girls who were listening. Meg looked mildly disgusted. "He doesn't plan to sneak me a kiss on the neck while Mama's not looking, you weasel. It's just to distract himself from _you_."

"_You're_ the weasel!" Danielle cried out over the giggles that had increased in volume.

"Let's just agree that Firmin wants to kiss us all," Brigitte flipped her straight black hair away from her face, taking the cigar back and having another puff. "The Opera House is the place with the prettiest girls after all!"

"We're practically like a brothel," Danielle added.

"Yes, but instead of lingerie we wear fancy costumes," Meg teased.

"And instead of spreading our legs, we do splits with them!" Fifi laughed as she clumsily mimicked a ballet move. Normally she was one of the most graceful in the troupe, but her drinking habit often rendered her an unbalanced mess. She put her hands up above her and kicked a leg to her side, nearly hitting a young girl who quickly scurried away in time.

"Careful, Prima Donna," Brigitte said, reaching out to bring Fifi's leg back to the ground. "You nearly gave Lucy a stab in the ribs!"

Lucille, a short, straggly-haired brunette aged 15, was the youngest among the dancers who were disobeying their bedtime and drinking in the basement. She spoke loudly and tactlessly, but had only had a sip of beer before she gagged from the burn on her tongue. She was considerably darker-skinned than the rest, being a freckled little girl browned from the sun and fresh from the countryside. She grinned back at Brigitte.

"Dun worry, my papa's gave me worse feet to my ribs than Feef will. Back Provence he hit me all the time, near always in the chest."

"Enough to flatten it!" Danielle teased. Lucille made a sour face and threateningly raised a fist, but Meg gently pulled it back down.

"Easy calm, Lucille," she smiled at her. "She's a delicate flower no match for your superb country fighting skills."

"Don't bore our game down, Maggie Eggs!" Brigitte gave her a rub in her hair. "What'd make my night is a catfight between two prissy little cast mates!"

"I'm not _prissy!_" Lucille objected. "I done a good lot work back in Provence! I learned _grand_ _jetés_ when I ran from them wolves an' jumped over rocks. I didn't done learn ballet from a wrinkly old grandma like you prissy dancers who talk of gowns and boys!"

"Now, now! We don't just talk of gowns and boys," Fifi pouted, lying on her stomach and resting her chin on her hands. "How about, Lucille, you choose what we talk about next."

Lucille calmed down a little, and then a mischievous smile came to her face. "Ghosts," she said in a mock-dark voice. "This opera's big and old. I bet it's got a good lot ghost stories."

"A good lot it does!" Brigitte exclaimed, and then lowered her voice to an eerie whisper. "Let's tell her the best of the lot, The Opera Ghost."

"You ever heard that one, Lucy?" Danielle asked, taking the cigar that was still being passed around and placing it casually between her lips. "It's plenty famous."

The 15-year-old shook her head. "No news ever done reaches Provence. 'Least, no news ever done reaches me. Tell me 'bout it!"

"You're sure you want to tell her _that _story?" Meg said nervously, inching slightly away from the rest of the dancers.

"Don't be a coward, Maggie Eggs," Brigitte nudged her lightheartedly with her elbow. She then brought a candlestick a little nearer to her face. "So this Opera Ghost… he was around for quite some time, longer than any of us. Some say he lingers still."

"He hasn't done a thing in two years!" Fifi moaned. She took a long sip from her bottle. The others laughed.

"Some say! Not all of them," Brigitte frowned at the interruption, but continued. "Back before Pristine Christine – I'm sure you've heard the likes of her – back before Christine was our star, the Ghost would go up on the rafters above the stage and drop letters for whoever owned the opera house. He'd demand a box to watch the next show in, and some big sum of francs for his 'salary'. So it's discovered he's been teaching Mademoiselle Christine how to sing; that's what she's so good. But still, everyone hates him. So what does he do? He murders some of the cast, some of the crew, even gives the great Carlotta a frog's croak in place of her voice. Two years ago he appeared at the New Year's masquerade ball. I wasn't there, I was out cold in the cellars, so, I don't truly know what…"

She trailed off, looking at Fifi and Danielle. "…What happened then?"

Fifi shrugged, still gulping down more beer. Danielle was just as silent as she played carelessly with the cigar in her mouth. They all slowly turned to Meg who had backed away a good distance from the group, hugging her knees to her chest and seeming ridiculously terrified.

"Meg, we know you were there," Brigitte teased. "Your mother had you tied up in that silly fancy dress. I remember when you came out of the dressing room! We laughed our arses off, you made a great huff and walked onwards to the ball."

Meg bit her lip and didn't say a word. Instead of appearing scared, she now looked unsure.

"Oh, Meg," Danielle rolled her eyes. "Come now. We know you're vying for the position of Mother of God, but Lucy here loves a good ghost story."

"Please, Maggie Eggs!" Lucille begged, crawling towards her to pull her back into the group.

"Loosen her up with some of this," Fifi laughed, raising up the bottle to Meg's face. She shook her head, and breathed a long, heavy sigh.

"If you'd like to hear it, I guess I might as well. Yes, I was there. Having to do the dancing with strangers in masks and whatnot. I was mostly happy, forgetting about the Opera Ghost. Of course, he doesn't like being forgotten. In the middle of the ball, he simply appeared – don't give me that face, I wasn't drunk at all that night – not from the door or from some secret entrance. I just heard gasps, turned around and there he was. He was dressed in dark red and wore a mask over his face like the rest of us, so I don't truly know what he looks like. He was tall, very. Obviously, I was scared. He was walking around, brushing past a few people, before stopping in front of Mademoiselle Christine. I didn't really quite hear what he said to her, but immediately after, he spun around and threw a script on the floor. Don Juan Triumphant, he called it. An opera. He told us that we were to perform it. I could guess that André and Firmin truly feared him now, since they went right along with that request. And, well… I'm certain you all know the rest of the story."

"I dun!" Lucille scowled. "Keep going!"

Meg shook her head. "Ask Fifi or Danielle or Brigitte to tell it to you. They know it, no reason to ask me."

"Oh, Meg, don't be so silly," Danielle rolled her eyes, passing the cigar on to Fifi. "You're the best girl for the job! You were nearest to them, and you went down to beneath the opera house. You saw everything, _know _everything about the Opera Ghost."

Lucille's eyes widened, and she edged closer. "Meg, that true?"

The blonde sighed, but managed a weak smile at her. "It is. But there's nothing to talk about any longer. Everything after that is completely uninteresting, and nothing frightening."

"Nothing frightening?" Fifi smiled slyly. "Are you really afraid to tell us about something so uninteresting?"

Meg looked back up, and saw the same expression on everyone's face. She stared back at them for a moment, then rolled her eyes and got back onto her knees.

"Give me that," she quickly grabbed the cigar from Fifi's hands, took a puff from it, and coughed violently.


End file.
